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PETER 



PETER 



BY 



ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

1920 



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COPYRIGHT, 1920, By THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



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0)CU604351 



NOV -I 1920 



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**And thou shall live as long as we^ 
And after that — thou dost not care! 
In us was all the world to thee'' 



PETER 

WHAT are you thinking of, 
Peter?" 
At the sound of the voice the 
tip of Peter's tail moved shghtly* 
Peter's meditations were not to be 
disturbed by idle questions ; they 
were too profound — far pro- 
founder than the speaker imagined. 
They had nothing to do with ma- 
terial things. 

Like his Master, Peter was a 
philosopher. There the likeness 
ceased. The Master's philosophy 
ended in perplexity, Peter's in 
serenity. For he was the only liv- 

i: 1 3 



PETER 

ing creature who had seen its 
God. 

There was not the slightest 
doubt about it. Every earthly 
pleasure, every material satisfac- 
tion, was traceable to that strange 
being sitting hour after hour in 
the leather chair with the big folio 
open on its knees. Nothing had 
ever thrown the faintest shadow of 
doubt on Peter's conviction. Noth- 
ing the Being in the chair might 
do in the future could invalidate 
its divinity, and in this knowledge 
was supreme content. 

Peter made no pretence of un- 
derstanding his God. Long since he 
had acknowledged its ways were 

c: 2 :i 



PETER 

past finding out. He was under no 
obligation to explain the amazing 
futility of its actions. It was enough 
for Peter that the Master was the 
dispenser of good and evil, that he 
was asleep by his fire, would pres- 
ently walk with him in the wood 
and sup with him on their return. 
Nor did it matter to Peter that 
he was misunderstood. He was 
not bothered by what he did not 
know. He took life and God as 
they were given him. It was well 
that he had not mastered all the 
accents of language, the pity and 
the vanity of the question addressed 
to him; for Peter, in the behef of 
the Master, was a rank mate- 

C 3;] 



PETER 

rialist, credited only with; sor- 
did thoughts of supper, foolish 
thoughts of the squirrel that had 
mocked him from the oak, animal 
thoughts of the fire's warmth and 
the rug's softness. Whereas Peter 
was thinking of none of these 
things. They counted for nothing 
in comparison with the friendship 
and companionship of his God. 
For Peter had found what man had 
been seekingever since he emerged 
from the slime, what he had prayed 
for before priests were born. How 
many images he had fashioned in 
tears and broken in scorn ! How 
many puppets he had lifted to 
thrones and dragged in dust ! 

l42 



PETER 

Peter had had no via dolorosa. He 
was born with an organized judg- 
ment, superciliously designated by 
his Master as instinct. Peter knew. 
He would sleep a little longer, till 
the folio was closed and the voice 
said, */ Arise and follow me." 

Peter was not blind to his privi- 
leges. He alone had free entrance 
to the Holy of Holies. In this re- 
spect he took precedence over 
Tom and Mary. He had a toler- 
ant affection for Tom and Mary, 
though they often offended his 
dignity. That he was distinctly 
superior to both was indisputable. 
There was also a woman who came 
occasionally into the temple, shar- 



PETER 

ing his rights. But Peter was dis- 
criminating. She was not a god 
— only a worshipper, like himself. 
Peter gave her his left-over love. 
She was kind, not masterful, and 
possessed a strange power of mak- 
ing him uneasy — even jealous. 
Peter could fight for a bone. But 
that was a trivial matter. The pre- 
cious thing was the Master's af- 
fection — not to be divided. His 
nearest approach to intimacy was 
the Master's knee. The woman 
had his arms. A vague sense of 
injustice troubled Peter's serenity. 
His objections to tramps were of 
a different order. Life after all 
was a mystery, the woman the 

161 



PETER 

greatest of all. Peter's sense of 
right and wrong was keen. He ac- 
cepted the Master's whip without 
flinching. He knew he had no 
business to flush that partridge. 
But the woman's punishments 
were unmerited, besides being 
ridiculous, and her praise unearned 
— the master's, rare, worthy of 
a God. 

But of Death, the greatest mys- 
tery of all, Peter knew nothing. 

For his other associates Peter 
entertained a tolerant contempt. 
What the woman did not know 
he knew — that the cat was a 
fawning egoist, selfish to the core 
and incapable of self-abnegation. 



PETER 

The Master was not so easily de- 
ceived. The poultry he took under 
his protection, as every fox on the 
hillside was aware. Peter loved 
authority, but used it tactfully, 
shutting his eyes when the puppy, 
in the exuberance of youth, raided 
the hennery and ran riot among 
silly folk who did not know the 
difference between malice and fun. 
His only real acquaintance was the 
Master's horse. Deep down in his 
consciousness as the spiritual sign 
of distinction was the fact that he 
belonged to a superior race — the 
only race in the animal kingdom 
which preferred the society of 
man to that of its own kind. 

i: 8 :i 



PETER 

Peter opened his eyes. 

The light was failing fast. All 
hope of the comradeship and free- 
dom of the open air was over. He 
gave a long sigh and closed his 
eyes again. The Master had for- 
gotten. The enemy of all joy 
was still on the knee. A fleeting 
memory crossed Peter's brain, of 
a day of wrath, when he had scat- 
tered the enemy in mouthfuls over 
the floor. Jolly days those, for all 
the whacks ! Now were the sober 
years of discretion. Not for him 
to question the doings of a God. 

He knew precisely what was 
about to happen. Tom and Mary 
would come in to be kissed good- 



PETER 

night. Next they would roll with 
him on the rug and pull his ears. 
He didn't mind that overmuch. 
He had been a puppy himself, and 
love was love in all its forms. 
Then the woman would come. 

Peter gave a low growl. 

The Master looked up. "What's 
the matter, Peter — dreaming?" 

No, Peter was not dreaming. 
He rose, nosed the folio from the 
knee, and rested his head in its 
place — his own place. The Mas- 
ter laid his hand on the head, 
smoothing back the silky ears. 
Peter's eyes were mute, as human 
tongues sometimes are, for sheer 
happiness. 

i: 103 



PETER 

Then came night, exile, when 
the woman had her way, and he 
went on guard. 

Peter was conscious of his faults. 
They had been pointed out to him 
times innumerable, whereby his 
virtues had become a second na- 
ture of which he was not conscious 
at all. The Master extolled his pa- 
tience, obedience, politeness. Peter 
would have laughed in his sleeve, 
if he had had one. Certain things 
were inexpedient to do. 

But character, unacquired vir- 
tues, inherited from ancestral expe- 
rience under the law of the jungle, 
were his. He was proud, without 
vanity. He lapped the water from 

1 11 3 



PETER 

the spring without seeing the re- 
flection, and passed the woman's 
long mirror with superb indiffer- 
ence. He was thus ignorant of the 
gray hairs gathering about his eyes. 
Of abstract time he had no knowl- 
edge. Memory and anticipation 
were his. He could put two and 
two together, but not two and four. 
He knew, but he did not know 
that he knew. That something 
was happening he was painfully 
aware — something sinister, unac- 
countable, which warned him that 
it was better to creep under the 
four bars he used to take with one 
flashing leap, to seek the flat stone 
warmed by the sun — something 

c: 12 :i 



PETER 

intangible, persistent, which nei- 
ther growl of protest nor curling 
lip revealing white fang intimi- 
dated. The evidence was unmis- 
takable. Tom and Mary were 
growing rough, the woman less 
hospitable, and his friend the horse 
inconsiderate. Time was when he 
ran two miles for the road's one ! 
Every leaf-strewn lane, every sun- 
fleeted valley in the hills Peter 
knew by heart — but not the Val- 
ley of Shadows. At its gate he en- 
tered, uneasy, but fearless — com- 
forted and secure in the unfailing 
loving-kindness of his God. 

There came an evening when 
Tom and Mary passed all bounds. 



PETER 

Such hugs and kisses and tears ! 
Peter bore this uneven distribution 
of affection with his customary 
patience, shook his ruffled gar- 
ments into form, turned three 
times dehberately and lay down 
— no longer in his once favorite 
position, hind legs outstretched, 
nose between paws. That had 
been abandoned long ago out of 
respect for the craven enemy that 
tormented him. Peter's remedies 
against hidden foes too cowardly 
to fight in the open were few — 
the field grass and sleep — always 
sleep. Sleep now was not even 
forgetfulness. Proud as ever, the 
semi-conscious whine of sleep was 
I 14 3 



I 



PETER 

his only capitulation to the enemy. 
Flat on his side, he heard far away 
the murmur of conversation, open- 
ing his eyes at the sound of his 
name — to close them again. They 
were speaking of him, not to him. 

Then, suddenly, the Master 
rose to his feet with decision, put 
on his hat and coat, and called : 

"Come, Peter!'' 

Peter, wincing, bounded to his 
feet, wide awake in a second. His 
friend the horse was at the door. 
It was humiliating to be lifted to 
the seat. There were tears in the 
woman's eyes, which usually hap- 
pened when the Master went on 
a journey. Peter curled himself 

I 15 3 



PETER 

up on the seat. If the Master was 
going on a journey, he was going 
with him. 

Peter knew every road-turn- 
ing with his eyes shut — but not 
this road, nor its ending. The place 
and its tenant were strangers. That 
the Master should leave him with 
this stranger was unprecedented. 
But Peter followed obediently. 
Was not the friend of the Master 
his also? The room whose door 
closed upon him was a strange 
one, carpeted with straw. Where 
was the furniture ? The sound of 
departing wheels mystified him. 
He listened as they died away, then 
barked furiously. Was he losing 

■ c 16:1 



PETER 

his nerve? For the first time in 
his life he felt utterly lonely. The 
silence of the place was terrifying, 
and its odor nauseating. Peter was 
a judge of odors. This one, at- 
tached to no personality, was dis- 
quieting. He so far forgot himself 
as to howl. But betrayal never 
entered his mind. He took three 
uncertain steps, with wobbling 
traitor legs, steadied himself with 
an effort, tumbling over on his 
side, seeing visions — visions of 
wood and stream, of rug and 
fireside — and Master — and gave 
a long, low sigh. 

Going on his last journey Peter 
took his God with him. 



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